


New You

by deutschshepard



Category: Smosh
Genre: Amnesia!Ian, Established Relationship, I can't really tag this accurately, I swear it makes sense, M/M, Marriage, New Life!Ian, No Kids - Freeform, Slow-paced, Smosh doesn't exist, Transported into another dimension!Ian, anymore, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:40:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deutschshepard/pseuds/deutschshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian wakes up married to Anthony in a house he doesn't recognize, he has to figure out who he is. And fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You May Have Kissed the Bride

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, look who's back. Spoiler alert: it's me.  
> This chapter is kind of a scene-setter for the rest of the story, so bear with me. Lots of Ian-Anthony interaction to come.  
> I know there's a WHOLE lot of memory loss fics out there, so it's purely an accident if this one resembles another. Sorry!  
> I won't be updating this one as frequently, but updates will still happen. In time.  
> Enjoy :)

Ian was pulled from sleep by a pair of lips pressed against his own.

The mouth was gone before he was fully conscious. When he finally managed to wrench his eyes open, he drowsily looked around to locate the person who’d kissed him awake.

Anthony was facing a mirror, straightening his tie and fixing his hair. “Coffee’s in the kitchen,” he said airily. “See you after work, babe.” Evidently satisfied, he turned back to Ian and kissed him again. Anthony grinned against his mouth, ruffling his hair and stealing a final peck before leaving the bedroom. His footsteps echoed through the house, fading farther and farther away. A door slammed in the distance.

Ian was frozen in shock.

Anthony had just kissed him. Like it was nothing. Like it was _normal_.

What the everloving fuck?

He managed to sit up, heart only just starting to pound in horrified confusion, and forced himself to look around the room.

Nothing was familiar. Nothing. It was all polished oak and silk sheets, with picture frames perched on dressers and walls. In the middle sat the king bed. On the king bed sat Ian. A very, _very_ confused Ian.

Where the hell was he?

Ian’s breath came more quickly as he reached up to feel at his hair. The bowl cut had vanished. In its place were short, unfamiliar locks that came nowhere near his forehead. He scrambled out of the bed and almost fell over himself getting to the mirror.

Holy shit.

Ian shakily touched his face. The stubbly beard was still there, thank God, but that was the only part of his own reflection he recognized. His face was slim, tanned, and every bone seemed more prominent. He had cheekbones he didn’t know he had. His eyes had a few more wrinkles, his nose straighter and longer. His new hair was barely a whisper of what it used to be. He was _hot_. Not just hot, he was _handsome_. In a yuppie kind of way. This guy didn’t even resemble him.

Ian stumbled backward, the backs of his knees hitting the mattress. He sat in a daze.

He’d gone to sleep in his own room, in his own bed, and he’d woken up here.

He looked up at the walls, at the pictures. It was them. Him and Anthony. Them together, them kissing, and the one on the dresser was, upon closer inspection, them in tuxedos, dancing in each others’ arms. Ian looked at his left hand.

Gold ring.

Sweet Jesus.

Had he lost his mind overnight? Was he currently strapped to a chair in some asylum and this was all an illusion? He hoped it was.

Ian looked more closely at the photos on the walls. Some of them were old, so old that they had to have been taken at least five years ago. He had no idea what day it was. Or what year.

The gravity and insanity of the situation finally began to hit home. Ian grabbed at his short hair, tugging it in a panic. He was _married_ to _Anthony._ In a world he had absolutely no clue about.

Ian hyperventilated so hard he nearly passed out. No. No fucking way. This had to be some sort of sick joke, an elaborate prank set up by the crew. The Life-Swap Challenge. Had to be. They had gone to a heck of a lot of trouble, especially on the Photoshop with all those pictures. Where had they set all this up, anyway? Maybe a willing friend’s house? Yeah. Everyone was in on it.

Ha.

Ha, ha.

Holy fuck.

He couldn’t lie that much. He’d either lost his mind or his memory, and now he was married to Anthony, what the fuck. How he’d gotten here, he had no fucking clue.

First he had to find out who and where the hell he was.

He pulled himself together, although barely, and stood shakily from the bed. Through the doorway, Ian was met with a faceful of house. It was a really large place. There had to be something around here that would give him some indication of his identity. He wondered if Ian was still his name.

That was the mindfuck of the century.

If he was honest, the house was beautiful, even to his uncultured eyes. Open and airy, it seemed to stretch on for miles. When Ian rounded the hallway corner, he almost stepped on the cat sprawled in a ray of sun.

“Pip!” he exclaimed. Even his own voice sounded lower. He wanted to cry with relief—at least there was something he recognized, even if it was Anthony’s cat. Pip stared up at him, decidedly unconcerned, and went back to sleep.

Above Pip was a cheery calendar, bland but colorful and filled with seasonal stock photos. The month was November.

The year was 2018.

Ian yanked at his hair again. He’d lost nearly three whole years of his life. On the (rather bleak) bright side, it hadn’t been twenty. On the downside, he was now living with Anthony in their expensive house, _married_ , living a life he didn’t belong in.

He found the kitchen, and it was gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Ian pulled the open the fridge door. Everything was either organic, homemade, or labeled as “meat-free” and “vegan.” No meat in sight. This looked like Anthony’s fridge; surely he would never consent to a life without bacon?

Apparently he had.

He walked to the front door. One quick turn of the knob and he was outside, stepping back to stare up at the two-story home. Their small lawn was neatly cut while trimmed shrubs lined the walkway. Large windows, white panels. The neighborhood, from what Ian could gather from the surrounding houses, seemed suburban and friendly enough. A lot like his old one, but more…domestic. They were likely still in California. It was like he’d walked onto a movie set. He’d stepped in during filming and he had no part in it.

Filming.

What had happened to Smosh?

Ian darted back inside and searched the house as best he could. A picture of Anthony in a suit, but no Smosh. Memos on the fridge, but no Smosh. A folded newspaper sitting on the coffee table, but still no Smosh. No brainstorming notebooks, no sentimental props, no appointments or dates on the calendar that had anything to do with his former life.

Ian flipped open the newspaper to confirm the date, and his heart sank. Three years. Same California headlines as ever, but that and Pip were the only things he recognized. No Smosh in sight.

Ian sat down heavily on the couch. So their teen legacy had just…vanished?

That was a tough pill to swallow. They’d worked their asses off on making names for themselves. Smosh was their pride and joy. They’d been getting ready to move on, leave it to the new recruits, yes, but they’d always be a part of it. And it would always be a part of them.

Not anymore, it seemed.

If they weren’t doing Smosh, what were they doing? Anthony had been in a suit this morning (after he’d KISSED him, Ian would never recover) and he’d been going to work. In a suit. Which was probably why they could afford this house.

Maybe he was a pimp.

Ian laughed a bit hysterically.

Back in the bedroom, there were small signs of life he hadn’t noticed before. A lone sock under the bed, his preferred deodorant on the dresser, some sort of walking cane propped next to the bed. Curiosity winning over, Ian opened the bedside table’s drawer and was immediately met with a horrible sight.

Lube. And condoms.

Ian slammed the drawer shut as fast as he could.

 _There could be vital information in there_ , his brain whispered menacingly.

He’d gotten all the information he needed, thanks.

_Open it._

No.

_OPEN IT._

Ian gingerly pulled the drawer back open and tried his best to ignore the evidence of his and Anthony’s apparent sex life.

Among the, um, supplies were a pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a really thin iPhone tossed haphazardly on the whole pile. Anthony smoked? Or maybe he did. Gross.

Ian snatched the phone and turned it on. Locked. But it had a picture of Anthony as the lock screen. Either Anthony was a bigger narcissist than he suspected, or it was his phone.

Ian held his breath and typed in the passcode he’d used all his life.

Sweet holy heaven, it worked.

Ian thanked himself for being such a creature of habit, even in this insane world. The layout of the phone was marginally different, but he managed to navigate it fairly well. He opened what looked like his contacts and found a list of names he didn’t recognize.

This Ian was incredibly social and well-networked. Only a few people he knew, like his mom, had made it onto the list. He didn’t know most of them. Looked like he only had one option.

Hesitantly, he called his mom’s number and held the phone to his ear.

It rang once, twice, and then, “Ian?”

Ian let out a shaky breath, utter relief flooding through him. Hearing his mom’s voice was like the first breath of air after having been underwater. He’d never been more glad to talk to her in his life.

“Hello?”

“Yeah,” he managed. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, honey. Are you okay? How’s your leg?”

His leg? “I’m fine, Mom. I just…” To tell or not to tell? On the one hand, she might fill him in on everything and support him until he could find his feet. On the other, she might freak out and ship him off to a mental hospital.

Come on. She was his mom.

“Mom,” he whispered. “I…I need help.”

“Ian?” She sounded instantly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay. But…how far away are you?”

He bit his lip, hoping beyond all hope.

“I’m at home.”

Ian shut his eyes. Dammit. He had to do this over the phone, then.

“Mom, I can’t remember anything.”

Another pause, longer than the last.

“Ian, is this a joke?”

“No, mom, I swear I’m not joking. I woke up this morning and my memory’s gone.” That was a lie—he remembered going to bed last night in his own apartment, single and with no Anthony in sight. “I’m only remembering bits and pieces. Now me and Anthony are married and he’s got a job and I don’t know where I am.” He wiped furiously at the tears of frustration that welled in his eyes. “Can I come see you?”

By some stroke of luck, his mother only lived about an hour away. She gave him directions and a few words of slightly alarmed encouragement. He hung up, feeling a little more grounded and a little more hopeful.

Now to get there.

He found a set of car keys on the dresser beside the ashtray. He then found the door to the garage, walked in, and had to actively swallow his drool.

It was definitely a BMW. Probably the newest model, too, since he didn’t recognize it at first glance. Didn’t recognize it at second, either. He’d only ever seen them on lots and speeding past him on the highway.

Ian raised the keys and it unlocked.

“Hot damn,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand reverently over the side of the car. If this was what marrying his best friend and starting a new life got him, he’d gladly do it again.

…Too soon.

Even the seats themselves seemed to cradle his ass for maximum comfort. He wanted to wash his hands before he even touched the steering wheel, but he was on a deadline, as in: how close he could cut it before Anthony got home.

Ian started the car and almost died from a heart attack when music pummeled his eardrums at volume ten million. He fumbled for the radio and managed to slam the thing off. Apparently either he or Anthony was a huge douchebag who liked to destroy their eardrums with shitty music.

Not wanting to fuck with the GPS, he glanced periodically at the directions he’d written on his phone and prayed he didn’t get pulled over for texting and driving. The surroundings were unfamiliar, but he made note of the street name.

In about 50 minutes—he swore people just pulled out of the way to let this baby pass—he arrived at his mom’s house. Sadly, it wasn’t the house he’d grown up in, but that would have made him too upset anyway. She was there almost as soon as he knocked, pulling the door open to greet him. Just seeing her face grounded him, made him believe that everything would be okay.

Throwing aside all pretense, he stepped forward and hugged her tightly. She hugged him back, chuckling in surprise.

“I love you, Mom,” he said, throat tight.

“I love you, too,” she said, releasing him. He let go far more reluctantly.

She looked at him with something like sympathy. Or pity.

Ian took a deep, steadying breath. “Mom, can you fill me in?” It was humbling to have to ask about who you were.

Her eyes grew watery. “Oh, Ian. Come in.”

He only took one step before her eyes fell downward and she gasped.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “You’re walking!”

“So I am,” he said. “Why is that a surprise?”

His mom shook her head. “Honey,” she said quietly, almost sadly. “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”


	2. String Around Your Finger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian's mom is a lifesaver. In whatever life this is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you it would be a while. But it's here now, so enjoy the chapter :)  
> Also, again, more introductory stuff. It gets exciting soon. Hopefully.

Ian sat quietly while his mom filled him, fidgeting with the hem of the shirt he’d thrown on. He wasn’t sure if it was his or not. Along with the rest of his clothes.

And the rest of his _life_.

“You’re thirty,” she began. “Your birthday is in ten days.”

“I know my birthday,” Ian admitted. “I know some things, like my name and Anthony and you, of course. But most of it is blurry.”

Mom sighed deeply. “You and Anthony got married almost four years ago. You moved in together a year before that. You have a cat named Pip.”

“No dog?”

She shook her head. “Anthony’s allergic. You didn’t have the time to train one, anyway. At least until five months ago.”

“What happened five months ago?”

“You were shot in the kneecap by a drug dealer. The doctor said you could have a crippling limp for the rest of your life, despite all the surgery. But apparently it wasn’t as permanent as we thought.” She smiled, bittersweetly given the current situation. Give a leg, take his memory. Of this life, anyway. “Must be a miracle.”

“A drug dealer?”

“You were a cop.”

A cop. Ian leaned back against the couch. That was the last job he would have expected to hold. Then again, the universe seemed to have a cruel sense of irony nowadays.

“What does Anthony do?”

“He’s a defense attorney. Everyone always said you were made for each other.”

A cop and a lawyer. He couldn’t hold back his laugh. They’d gone from immature adults to upstanding figures in the law system, depending on who you asked.

Aside from that, the thought of Anthony as a lawyer was hilarious. And a little badass. (Not that he’d ever say it.)

“How long have we been in our jobs?”

“After you finished at the academy, you went into work. You were only twenty. It’s a dangerous job, but you were never injured until that incident. Anthony was employed right after his undergraduate studying. You always admired his dedication.”

“How did we meet?”

“Oh, you two have been friends since middle school. You grew close again after you graduated and you’ve been together since.”

That was sweet. Sickeningly sweet. Left a cloying taste in his mouth.

“When did we get married?”

“December…17, if I recall correctly.”

“And we’ve been married three years?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

Mom laughed. “Don’t miss your anniversary, now.”

Ian grinned. “I won’t.”

His anniversary. With Anthony. That was a thought he’d never had. He wondered what he was supposed to do to celebrate or whatever.

With a jolt of horror that had been floating around in his mind but that he’d failed to acknowledge, it hit him that he knew absolutely nothing about this Anthony.

“Mom,” he said, “can you…tell me anything about him? Anthony? What he likes, what he dislikes? I don’t remember a lot.”

Mom gave a hopeless shrug. “He’s your husband, honey. I’m sure he’ll understand if you tell him you have memory loss.”

Ian could not do that. Anthony would think he was nuts or send him to the hospital.

Speak of the devil. “Have you gone to a doctor about this yet?” she asked.

Fuck. Shit. Ian gritted his teeth. “No.”

Mom started. “Ian, this could be a serious medical condition! Do you remember what happened to make you lose your memory?”

“No.”

Mom stood from her place on the couch. “I’m calling the hospital.”

“No!” He couldn’t go to a hospital. He didn’t _lose_ his memory; there would be no trauma to look at. He remembered his life, his real life, and even the years he hadn’t skipped were completely different than he knew. They would ship him off to an asylum before he could protest. Ian knew he wasn’t crazy, it was this whole world that was insane. “No, Mom, it’s okay. It’s coming back to me when you talk about it.” That was a bold-faced lie if he ever told one. And to his mother—what kind of monster had he become? “I’m getting bits and pieces. I’ll probably have my memories back in a few days. I’m pretty sure I hit my head or something. There’s no need to go to a doctor and I doubt they could do much about this, anyway.”

His mom looked extremely skeptical. “Ian, are you _sure_ you’re okay? That kind of injury could be very serious.”

“I’m fine. I just needed you to tell me some things so I won’t freak out Anthony while my memory comes back. That’s all.”

“If you still don’t remember in a week, I’m trusting you to make an appointment. I _will_ be calling.”

“I will. I promise.”

A week. He had a week to figure out anything and everything about who he now was, with Anthony breathing down his neck and noticing any slip-ups.

All the while playing house with his male best friend.

His mom stood up and he followed suit. She clasped her hands around his.

“I can’t say I’m happy about you losing your memory,” Mom said, “but I’m so thankful you can walk again. It was awful seeing you so helpless.”

He shrugged. “I can’t explain it. I’m glad I don’t need a cane, though.”

She laughed and hugged him again. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?”

Nothing he could think of. He told her as much. But when he made to say goodbye, she just laughed.

“You do realize you’re staying for lunch, don’t you?”

Ian hung his head. “Yes, mom.”

\---------

She whipped up a special Mom-cooked meal, assuring him it was vegan. He hadn’t seen the problem, but thanked her anyway. An hour later, he managed to force himself to leave. Not impossible, especially when he thought of the BMW, but he hadn’t had quality time with his mom in a while. He vowed to visit more often.

He drove home more slowly, knowing he probably had plenty of time before Anthony got back. He’d wrangled with Google Maps on his phone for a few minutes before he got a route back to his address.

About halfway to the house, his phone buzzed with a text. He was on the highway, wasn’t an idiot, and checked his phone at a red light.

_Hey hon! I’m not going to be home for lunch, so I’ll see you at dinner. Love you!_ Heart emoji. Cute.

It would’ve been cuter if Ian actually _felt_ married to Anthony.

Aside from the memory, this was the biggest issue. How in the hell was he supposed to pretend like he was in love with him? They’d been married awhile, and Ian knew they were well into the domestic stage. So Anthony would expect kissing and sweet-talking and, dare he even think it, sex.

Ian was not ready to have sex with Anthony. By any means.

But he couldn’t deny him forever without ruining their relationship. Romantic and otherwise. Dread it he may, it was inevitable.

Ian parked the car safely in the garage and went back inside.

As he hunted for more information, the hours slipped by. By the time he’d gotten desperate enough to Google “memories of different life help,” it was five o’clock. And Ian heard the front door open.

There was no point in avoiding it. He had to man up and deal with this shit. He was going to be the best goddamn husband—

Best not to think about that just yet.

Ian steeled himself and walked into the living room.

Anthony was locking the door, not having looked up yet. His hair was similar to the style Ian remembered, but more conservative and…lawyer-esque, he supposed. His tie was slightly askew. Ian had rarely ever seen Anthony in a suit, and it wasn’t any less weird this time around.

Anthony turned and stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “You…”

Ian took a few steps, held up his cane-less hands, and mustered a smile. “Surprise?”

Anthony strode forward and, without warning, kissed Ian (holy _shit_ , it was finally sinking in that they actually _were_ married) and enveloped him in a tight hug. Ian tried to pretend like he wasn’t freaked out, heart pounding in the panic of Anthony so close, so intimate, so…husband-like.

Anthony laughed in high-pitched disbelief and pulled him closer. Ian let his arms wrap around him, if only for the sake of appearing normal.

“It’s a miracle,” Anthony whispered. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Ian answered back. “I just woke up and, well. Here I am.” That was for fucking sure. Here he was. Whoever he was.

“That’s incredible.”

“Yeah.”

Anthony finally let go. His eyes were misty, and he wiped at them shamelessly. The Anthony Ian knew would’ve been embarrassed about crying in front of him.

“I can’t believe it,” he said.

“Me either.”

Anthony smiled. “You don’t seem too excited about it.”

“I’ve had all day to get used to it,” Ian fumbled out. “Trust me, I’m thrilled.”

Anthony laughed again and shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it on the couch and undoing his tie. He pulled off the exhausted lawyer look pretty well, actually. It was so _weird_.

Anthony kissed him on his way to the kitchen.

That was _weirder_.

Ian wondered if he’d ever get some kind of warning.

“I was going to make something,” he lied, “but I wasn’t sure what you wanted. I know you’re tired. From work.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Anthony replied. Ian heard the fridge open. “We both know you’re shit with tofu anyway, you can cook tomorrow. I’m just so…relieved.”

“ _You’re_ relieved?”

“Well, you were pretty miserable. Don’t lie.”

Ian heard plates being set on the counter and foil being crinkled away.

“Yeah, I was.” Sure.

Microwave starting up.

Ian shuffled into the kitchen. Anthony turned away from the slowly rotating food and leaned against the counter, smiling fondly.

“God,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Never thought it would happen.”

“You and me both.” Never thought he’d be fucking married to—

“So there was no transition?” Anthony asked. “You woke up and you could walk? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Ian didn’t know when he’d become such a proficient liar, but it was the only thing keeping his head above water at the moment.

Anthony chuckled. “Asshole,” he murmured, walking over to Ian and scooping his arms around his waist. Ian had to force himself not to shove Anthony away when he kissed him lightly. A husband wouldn’t do that.

Shit, why was he even trying to keep this up?

The microwave was his saving grace, beeping shrilly and pulling Anthony away. Ian wiped his mouth while Anthony’s back was turned, feeling vaguely nauseous.

He wasn’t against gay people. He just wasn’t used to participating. And he dreaded the thought of tonight. In bed. Possibly _in bed_.

Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.

Anthony was dividing about half the plate onto another, some sort of curry-rice monstrosity that Ian wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep down. It smelled good, but was definitely vegan.

Anthony held the plate up, grinning and motioning at him. “Well? Come get it.”

Ian rolled his eyes and strode forward, ignoring Anthony’s delighted hum as he took his food. He sat down at the table and watched Anthony follow suit. This new Anthony, who looked so in shape he had to be a gym rat. This guy, with the clean-shaven face and the lack of hair gel and the air of intellect that was totally foreign.

The guy that looked like Anthony.

As the guy shoveled a forkful of vegan disaster into his mouth, dark reminders of their marriage began to creep back into Ian’s brain, enforced by the ring on Anthony’s hand that matched his.

He forcefully pushed it out of his mind and refused to think about what tonight would bring. Right now, all he had to do was make it through dinner.


	3. Toeing the Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The minefield is a lot less menacing than he first thought, but he hasn't hit the bombs. Yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my apologies for the delay. Lots of papers, tests galore, but they're all done now and hopefully I'll have more time to crank this story out. Enjoy the chapter!

It was nothing like Ian had eaten before, but he was kicking himself for not trying it sooner.

“This is amazing,” he said sincerely.

Anthony looked surprised. “Really?” he asked. “You didn’t like it that much yesterday. I figured we’d just get it out of the fridge.”

Right. Leftovers. “I wasn’t in the best mood yesterday, was I?” Hopefully.

Anthony laughed. “That’s true. Try the past two months,” he added, giving him a teasing grin. “But I can’t blame you. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

“Pretty rough.”

“Yeah, trust me, I know.”

Ian was thrown by the conviction of that statement. Surely he couldn’t have been _that_ grumpy? Anthony seemed genuinely good to him as a partner—cue horrified goosebumps—and past Ian had supposedly loved him enough to marry him. There was no way he’d been overly shitty to him. Anthony was just a drama queen in every universe.

He let it slide and scarfed down more food.

They ate, but Anthony seemed subdued. Ian would’ve thought he’d be pestering him with nonstop questions. With the big deal everyone was making about his leg, he thought it would be more interesting.

“So how’s work?” he asked. Anthony looked up from his food as if startled.

“Oh,” he said at length. “It’s…good.”

“Really?” Ian said. “It’s good?”

Anthony gave a small laugh. “Well, no.”

“Go on, then. Tell me about it. You should vent a little.” And give Ian more information. He was a mastermind.

“Okay, well. You remember that case I was telling you about?”

No. “Yeah. The one you’re still on?”

“Mm-hm. That guy.” Shit, with Ian’s luck on guessing, they should go to Vegas. “And I _know_ he’s guilty, that’s not the part that bothers me.” Anthony ran a hand through his hair. “What’s bothering me is that they found new evidence, and he’s guilty of a lot more things than we first thought. And I still have to defend him.”

“That’s shitty.”

“No shittier than every other case like this that I’ve had to cover.”

“The life of a lawyer, huh?”

Anthony shook his head. “Tell me about it.” His former energy had wilted away into nothing, his frame slumped and small. Even his hair seemed to droop dejectedly.

It was his duty, he supposed, to try to comfort Anthony. He spread his arms uncertainly. “Want a hug?”

Anthony looked stupefied, but seemed to shake himself out of his reverie and slowly stood from the table. Ian pushed back his chair and stood as well. They met halfway. Anthony wrapped his arms around Ian with far less vigor than he had before, almost uncertain in his movements.

After a moment thick with tension and the smell of Anthony’s cologne, Ian felt the muscles in Anthony’s shoulders relax as he let out a bone-deep sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony murmured.

“Why?”

“Here you are with your leg finally functioning and I’m complaining.”

“Anthony, I _asked_ you to complain. It’s fine. I’m glad I can be here for you.”

Anthony held him tighter. “I missed you,” he said. His voice was heavy and made Ian’s chest constrict in empathy. “You weren’t yourself.”

“I am now.”

Anthony pulled away, smiling, and ran a thumb over his cheek. “I love you,” he whispered.

“Love you too,” Ian lied.

Anthony kissed him for the umpteenth time that night. There was no shock to keep him frozen in place this time, and he had to endure every slimy, gay second of it.

…Okay, it wasn’t _horrible_ …

No. No, it was pretty horrible.

Ian tried to convince himself it was a girl, and it almost worked until Anthony’s huge man hands started feeling him up under the shirt and getting dangerously close to uncharted territory.

Ian broke the kiss as casually as he could and took a small step back. “I gotta go shower,” he said, wincing at the insincerity in his voice.

Anthony frowned. “You didn’t this morning?”

“No, I had…I was a little preoccupied.” He gestured vaguely to his legs. He didn’t actually know which leg had been hurt.

“All right.”

After Ian’s shower, in which he spent five solid minutes staring at himself in the mirror and fighting back another minor panic attack, one minute half-assedly brushing his teeth, and the rest of the time scrubbing his hair with some citrusy shit that he hoped was shampoo, he went back out to the bedroom. Anthony was shirtless and had square-framed reading glasses hugging the bridge of his nose. A well-loved paperback was dwarfed in one of his hands. The bedside lamp cast a soft, homey glow over the covers he was shrouded in. It was all nauseatingly domestic.

It was exactly the life Ian would have wanted to have, save for Anthony.

Anthony didn’t so much as glance up when Ian dropped the towel and hunted for pajamas. He felt more exposed than he ever had, suffocated by the dimly lit room and Anthony’s presence alone. Settling for a pair of maybe his boxers, he pulled them on and slid under the covers next to his best friend-turned-husband.

“Going to sleep already?”

Ian tried to ignore the several feet of bare skin looming in his peripheral. “Yeah, I’m just tired.”

To his surprise, Anthony didn’t try to point out that he’d been home all day and hadn’t been doing anything. He quietly dog-eared his page and set the book on the nightstand, turning out the light. Ian was suddenly bathed in darkness with a very nearly naked Anthony in bed next to him. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

They slept back to back, no touching at all, and before he fell asleep Ian wondered if this was normal for a marriage.

\--------

Ian stirred into consciousness just as Anthony was pulling on his suit jacket.

“Morning, sleepy,” Anthony said, still facing the mirror.

“M’rning,” he slurred. “Time s’it?”

“Six, as usual.” Anthony fluffed his hair once more and turned back to Ian. Ian knew what was coming. It was like watching two trains on one track headed straight for each other. Ian was powerless to stop the impending doom.

Sure enough, Anthony’s lips found his, and he’d kissed Anthony more times in the 24 hours than he’d kissed anyone in months.

Luckily, it was over quickly, and Anthony was out of the house in under a minute. Ian lay on the bed in silence for far too long, with a sinking feeling that yesterday hadn’t been a crazy dream after all.

As if to spare him from himself, his phone buzzed from the drawer where he’d replaced it. Forcing himself to roll over and grab it, he squinted at the screen. 6:17, Friday morning, and a text from a stranger.

**Will**

_Hey, you busy?_

He didn’t even want to think about his social life at this point. He shut his phone and was about to throw it back among the condoms, but…

On second thought…

Ian pinched the bridge of his nose and couldn’t believe what he was typing.

\--------

Two hours later and Ian knew waaaaaaay more about gay sex than he had ever wanted to.

At least he was prepared. Marginally.

(As if he’d ever be ready.)

He hauled himself out of bed and to the kitchen, where a third-degree burnt pot of coffee stunk up the room. Through trial and error, he successfully located two slices of bread, the toaster, and some organic vegetable oil spread that only made him miss butter more.

He leaned on the counter and waited. Waiting meant thinking, and thinking was dangerous.

How bad could it be?

Ian stared at the toaster, willing it to respond and solve his problems.

How bad could it really be?

Gay people everywhere had fought so hard—no pun intended—for their marriage rights. People online had been boasting about how much better gay sex was than straight sex, although he couldn’t help but feel they were a little biased. If it was as bad as he imagined, people wouldn’t fight so fervently for it, right?

These were questions the toaster refused to answer.

Ian had known Anthony since forever, both in this life and his real one. They had gotten incredibly intimate, although platonically. Hell, they’d been near-naked in videos together. They’d slapped each other’s asses. They’d read fanfic together, which was the most disturbing thing Ian had been through until this.

So how hard—again with the puns—could it be? Ian could appreciate an attractive man, but he’d never considered… _this_. And with Anthony?

Could he do it?

Would he have to?

The toast popped up with an air of sympathy.

Five minutes later, instead of continuing to suffer these questions, Ian walked straight back to bed and slept for four more hours.

\--------

A wormhole, apparently, was where his life had ended up.

That was the only explanation that fit all the criteria and was in the realm of “possible,” although barely. Parallel universe? Come on. That was pretty bullshit.

Probably.

Ian fought the urge to throw his phone across the room. An accident or head trauma wouldn’t explain why he’d woken up as a new person. He wasn’t ruling out mental illness and this being a giant hallucination, but he’d rather not think about that.

He wasn’t about to give in to this New Ian and his weird gay life just yet. If there was any possible way he could get back to his own world and avoid screwing Anthony, he was determined to find it. But all “reported cases” of time-space continuum victims said it was a one-way trip.

Well, what the hell was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to get out of all this?

Ian stretched out on the couch, stuck between bored to death and a major existential crisis. It was not a good place to be. He wondered what he did all day when Anthony was gone. Maybe he had a part time job?

Which meant he’d missed two days of unexcused work.

Right now, though, this was low on the priority scale. Judging by the time on his phone, Anthony would be home soon.

Great. Another painful night of avoiding questions and fumbling out excuses for why he didn’t want to make out with his hubby.

There was no way he could live like this much longer.


End file.
